


Angels, Birds, Spirits, and Other Things Meant to Fly

by tanyart



Category: Cal Leandros - Thurman, Temeraire - Novik
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An impressionable and young Tharkay runs into a notorious puck. (A Temeraire crossover with the Leandros Series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birds

**Author's Note:**

> The Robin Goodfellow here is depicted as the puck from the Cal Leandros Series, and not quite exactly from the works of Shakespeare. Nevertheless, there isn't much canon involved and serves more of a speculating drabble on Tharkay's past. :)

It was in one of the hot and sunny marketplaces of Nepal when they had met. Tharkay remembered it quite well, as that very day held an important place in his heart, not because he had fallen in love for the first time, but because no one could ever forget meeting someone like Robin.

Tharkay had rescued him, pulled him into the shadowed room of an English post while the street guards stormed past, shouting curses in Nepali, which he had not understood at the time, just as he had not understood the reason why he had pulled the strange man in, who was obviously a thief, given the way Robin rattled and clinked beneath his white robes.

They never had a proper introduction, especially when the guards retraced their footsteps and Robin had grabbed his hand to lead him on a wild run through the dirt-packed pathways and narrow alleys. Tharkay, breathless and sweaty beneath the fine blue coat his father had given him, had forced Robin to slow down and hide within a beggar’s hole. Before the whole damned chase started, they found that they both spoke perfect English, much to the surprise of each other.

“Oh, I knew I should’ve seen the cross-breed in you,” Robin had said, and would have appalled and infuriated Tharkay, if only he had not been distracted by the deep green of Robin’s mischievous eyes. Now, he asked, “Is your father some sort of fancy officer here? Has to be, I wager, else you wouldn’t be all dressed and looking as if you were wearing someone else’s skin. I tried that once, you know, not pretty—“

“What?” Tharkay interrupted, having regained both his breath and temper during Robin’s long narrative, “Just who are you?”

Robin grinned, as if he was waiting for the question all along, “Robin Goodfellow, at your service.”

Tharkay snorted, recalling the books of Shakespeare his governess made him read when he was younger, “Like the puck? Jester to the faerie king? Hobgoblin?” Then belated realized that Goodfellow was a common name enough, even if Robin was not.

But Robin Goodfellow did not even blink, and his grin only stayed in place, “The one and only, though Hobgoblin is a different puck, and a right bastard if you ask me. But Shakespeare loved me best, so that’s that.”

“You cannot be serious,” Tharkay muttered, trying not to see the strange similarities between the man next to him and the illustrations he had seen that depicted the puck, and thought idly that _this_ Robin Goodfellow was far too handsome for any painting to capture anyhow.

“But I am!” Robin protested gaily, poking his head from the hole, “Come on, it looks like we are free—_opps_. Spoke too soon.”

They spent the next ten minutes running again, with Robin prattling on about his adventures, which, to any sane man’s opinion, were very far-fetched. Unsurprisingly, Tharkay had to rest again, and he wondered how on earth Robin had so much stamina.

“You know, I find it odd that your father went through all the trouble of bringing you up. Not that you turned out horrible or anything, just rather useless,“ he observed, curiously, while Tharkay was doubled over, panting. “How old are you, anyway?”

Too tired to even care how much the comment stung, or how wretchedly close it was to Tharkay’s own secret musings, he answered, “Seventeen,” then added, for no particular reason, “My father does not know I’m here, in Nepal. He thinks I am in India, with his friends.” _No doubt where I would be trying in vain to fit into the genteel society._

“Well! Aren’t you the little skylark,” Robin whistled, not sounding the least bit impressed, only highly amused, “Don’t tell me you are here to find your mother.”

At this, Tharkay laughed, had the satisfaction of seeing Robin’s brow raise. “Of course not,” he said, sinking down to sit and lean his back against the cool, stone wall of a temple well. “I only wanted to see if Nepal was any better than England.”

“And is it?” Robin inquired, politely, in a way that Tharkay had come to hear as a patient tone Robin adopted whenever the conversation was not about him, specifically.

For the sake of keeping his answer brief, Tharkay shrugged, but couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from his tone, “No.”

Robin glanced down, picking at his nails, “Oh, I see now. You just haven’t found the right people. I find any place tolerable, depending on the company. Take Nepal, for instance. Not the prettiest place—(that would be Rome, before Alaric made a wretched mess of everything)—but then I meet you.”

It was said offhandedly and Tharkay did not grasp the meaning, at the time. He only saw the way Robin knelt down with something of a predatory leer, gently brushing the sweat from his forehead. Tharkay stilled beneath Robin’s hand, and the man chuckled.

“I have a fondness for birds, you know,” he said, cheekily, and added a string of Nepali with an innocent air.

“What?”

Robin only grinned, and tugged him up by the hand, “You’re missing out. Nepal is _beautiful_.”

  


* * *

Stolen clothes, Tharkay thought, slipping into the soft, cream-colored tunic. Though it was better than wearing his father’s coat, he had to admit. It felt light and airy, better suited for the hot weather, and the people did not eye him askance when he had walked the streets with Robin last night.

And, tacked on the wall with a slim knife—Tharkay shook his head, Robin loved theatrics—was a note, scrawled carelessly, as if to convey Robin’s mocking smile and frivolous state of mind before he had left earlier that morning while Tharkay was still asleep.

       _Skylark,_

              Dhanyabaad means ‘thank you’.

                           -Robin

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known that already, Tharkay knew that much, at least. But he took the hint, and freed the knife from the wall, leaving the note to drift down on the mat floor.

 


	2. Skylarks and Pigeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years after their first meeting, Tharkay runs into Goodfellow for the second and final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Chapter Three of Black Powder War (Temeraire-verse). Also implies an explanation for the Missing Tent Of Camels, because there has to be a point to this besides lolcrossovernoonewillread. *facepalm*

_ “I cannot understand them,” Temeraire said, listening with interest rather than dread; evil spirits did not alarm him. “What language is that?” _

_“No tongue of men or dragons,” Tharkay said seriously. […] “Those who listen too long grow confused and lose their way: they are never found again, except as bones scoured clean to warn other travelers away._ ”  
\- Black Powder War

***__

_“Please. As if you weren't chased over sand dunes by a band of Israelites desperate for a holy souvenir. They plucked you like a chicken. You looked like a mangy pigeon when I found you.”_  
Robin, Deathwish, 299

  


* * *

When he left Captain Laurence to simmer furiously in the tent, Tharkay could not suppress a rueful grin beneath the veils of his makeshift scarf. He shouldn’t have done it, but the captain had a way of provoking the very worst parts of Tharkay’s character. Well, perhaps not the worst parts, but certainly the more troublesome ones. He was, after all, quite fond of his wit, however deprecating it may be.

The sandstorm had died down enough to where Tharkay only had to shake half the desert from his coat once he had reached the camel tents. He checked the ties, finding most of them still secured and retied the ones that were not. All the while the wind hissed and snapped at the folds of the tent, which had grown slack and loose during the storm. The camels made faint, uneasy noises, and Tharkay found himself quickening his fingers over the knots. Honestly, he would rather spend the rest of the storm with a group of English aviators than tightly enclosed with a pack of disgruntled camels, who would not have had the same appreciation for his stories, or vaguely insinuated insults.

Through with the task, Tharkay pulled his gloves back on and was in the process of giving his hat a firm pat when a shadow fell against the thick canvas of the tent. It would have had the form of two figures leaning heavily on each other, if only there hadn’t been a strange skeletal, branch-like shape protruding from the bodies. The wind howled, and Tharkay took an involuntary step back, reminded of the evil spirits he had not spoken of minutes earlier with Temeraire.

“Only stories, tales for children and curious dragons,” he found himself murmuring, but his hand fell to the knife at his belt. The entrance to the tent opened, sending in a whirl of sand. Tharkay froze. There were two men, or at least one of them was; the other looked human enough, save for a pair of ragged and torn wings, barred with gold and deep red with blood. If Tharkay hadn’t known any better he would’ve called the creature an angel.

“Oh,” he said, and laughed quietly because the rest of his coherent thoughts had not caught up yet, “You always did have a fondness for birds, Robin.”

It hurt then, to have Robin draw out a dagger and stare at him, his expression drawn blank with no recognition. It was to be expected, Tharkay angrily reminded himself; it had been more than ten years since they last saw each other. Even then, they had only known each other for a day—and a night.

Robin remained curiously silent. His bright eyes were still the same vivid color of spring grass, and his face hadn’t aged at all since that hot, dusty day in Nepal. It was adamantly clear that he did not recognize Tharkay at all. He frowned, holding up his wounded comrade in a way that made Tharkay immediately dislike the creature, angel or not. After what seemed like an indescribable amount of time, Robin finally blinked once and smirked.

“Skylark,” he said suddenly and surely, giving that careless grin of his, “It’s been a while.”

And from the way he said it, Tharkay knew that there had been other skylarks before him, and will likely be more _after_ him. He doubted that Robin even remembered his name, if he had ever knew it at all. Tharkay paused, but failed to repress an ungracious, sardonic drawl. “It has indeed, Goodfellow. Though I wonder— if I am Skylark, then who is _he_?”

He gave a pointed look at the winged human, who was by all rights extraordinary, but damn it all if Tharkay was going to fawn over it.

“That,” Robin said crossly, putting away his dagger, “is Pigeon.” And, despite his degrading tone, the name sounded more endearing than Skylark.

At that, Pigeon gave a faint hiss of annoyance, “_Ishiah_.”

“Quiet, Pigeon,” Robin ordered, letting Ishiah drop to the floor with a grunt, “or I’ll pluck off whatever feathers you have left. Honestly, flying around humans in broad daylight, a whore for suicidal attention, that’s what you are.” He turned to secure the open flap of the tent.

When there was no immediate reply, Tharkay knelt down next to Ishiah, unable to help himself. He had seen paintings of angels, on the walls of churches and the tiles of temple ceilings. Long blond hair, a handsome face despite all the bruises, and Tharkay was certain that Ishiah had clear blue eyes, but the angel had fallen unconscious or asleep. It made him uneasy—to think that Ishiah had come straight from the Bible. Tharkay was more of an observer of religion, and could not exactly claim himself as a Christian man, though God knew he had tried in the past.

“Is he an angel?” he asked, warily glancing at Robin and wondering what _he_ was. Robin looked every inch a man, but there was something about him that went beyond human. Perhaps Tharkay had known back in Nepal that Robin’s eccentricity was more otherworldly than insane, though Tharkay had to admit it was a fine line Robin dance upon.

“An angel?” Robin laughed, “Really now, Skylark. Angels are only for exaggerated tales and forgotten myths. _Stories._”

Undaunted, Tharkay continued, “And are you a faerie?”

Robin grinned and repeated, “Stories, my friend, only stories.” With an explosive sigh, he slumped to the ground and stretched his legs, mindful of the camels. “I trust you wouldn’t mind us staying here for a bit, yes? We’ll be gone once the winds die down, I promise.”

Tharkay gave Robin a momentary look of exasperation. The man—if he was a man—was a thief and a liar, and the dim knowledge of Shakespeare’s plays gave Tharkay very little reason to let them stay. He assumed that Robin would refuse coming into the aviators’ tent, not with Ishiah at risk of discovery. Tharkay still had trouble taking his eyes off of the not-angel, whatever it was—it was unbelievable. He held back a dozen questions, knowing that if Robin wanted to talk, he would do so by his own violation. Instead, Tharkay asked, “Will your friend be all right?”

“Of course he will be,” Robin scoffed, though he was tentatively trying to smooth out the crumpled feathers from Ishiah’s wings, “He’s too stubborn to die, and believe me when I say that I’ve _tried_.”

“It appears you’ve almost succeeded,” Tharkay said before he could stop himself.

Robin did not look guilty, precisely, but there was a little twist in his smile that he knew that he _ought_ to feel guilty but simply didn’t know how to. “There were horsemen chasing after us,” he supplied, shrugging, “Usually Ishiah would toss them a few of his feathers and they’d be off, thinking that they’ve been blessed or something, but I suppose they weren’t quite satisfied.” He went on about how they were chased into the sandstorm and manage to find the tents. The details on how they actually survived the sandstorm were beyond Tharkay’s imagination; Robin talked much, but told very little.

“I had an awful time dragging Ishiah around,” he added, as if Tharkay would immediately shower him with sympathy.

“Tolerable company,” Tharkay murmured instead, almost absently.

Robin threw him a puzzled look, as if he was remembering something, but he went on because everything must have his opinion, “The worst sort of people, much too boring.”

Tharkay found himself smiling a little. “You are a contradiction within itself, Goodfellow,” he said lightly, rising from the ground. Having spent more time than necessary outside the aviator’s tent, Tharkay thought it best to avoid rousing any more of Captain Laurence’s ire, no matter how entertaining it was to see him cast apprehensive glances in Tharkay’s direction.

“You’re leaving?” Robin asked in disbelief, which was understandable.

“I’ve resigned myself,” Tharkay replied, knowing full well that Robin Goodfellow alone was sure to result in two missing camels by the time storm was over. They could spare it, he thought, and it would be easy enough to put the blame on the storm for loose tethers. He opened the tent, took one last look behind him, and said, “Good-bye, Robin.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, of course, he was decidedly very angry when he found the whole tent of camels gone, thanks to Robin, who had indeed taken two camels, but had forgotten to retie the tent after leaving.


End file.
